A tall man with iron-gray hair stepped into the library.

It was Silvio, the senior captain who had served Dominic’s father for thirty years.

Behind him stood two other men in dark overcoats, their shoulders wet from the Boston rain.

“Leo,” Silvio said, his voice deep and gravelly.

“We heard Dominic was brought back to the estate.”

Leo’s hand stayed near his pocket, but his expression smoothed into a cold smile.

“Silvio,” Leo said. “You are just in time.”

The two men behind Silvio were Enzo and Gianni, captains who controlled the docks and the north-side warehouses.

They smelled of wet wool and cheap cigars.

Their eyes moved from Leo to the desk, and then to Dominic slumped in the leather chair.

Dominic did not look up, but I saw his hand twitch beneath his thigh.

He was holding the scalpel I had slipped him, keeping it pressed against the cushion.

“We were told Dominic was in no condition to make decisions,” Silvio said, taking a step further into the room.

“Who told you that?” Leo asked, his voice deceptively soft.